Ten minutes. That's all they had between the first performances and the second ones.
Ten minutes to breathe, regroup, reset, do everything in their power to calm the fuck down and somehow convince their bodies and brains to get back out there and do it all over again — except better this time. Significantly better.
Backstage, Yen's team was doing their collective best to hold it together. Which, to be honest, was looking increasingly like a losing battle. The spiral had already started — the quiet, insidious kind, where everyone is very visibly trying not to think about the thing they're absolutely thinking about. Eyes going glassy. Shoulders climbing toward ears. The energy of people who were very much in their own heads and sinking deeper by the second.
Jeremiah assessed the situation.
Made a decision.
He walked up to each of his teammates and started slapping their booties. Just—bam, bam, bam—like he was clocking in for work.
Effective? Unfortunately, yes.
"WHAT—" Louie spun around, equal parts confused and personally affronted, the expression of someone whose brain was trying to process multiple things simultaneously and failing at all of them.
"It was the only reliable method available to snap y'all out of it," Jeremiah said, entirely unbothered. "Gentlemen. Get your heads out of your own asses and stop psyching yourselves out." He paused, tilting his head thoughtfully. "Also — I'm not gonna lie — them cakes were looking too irresistible not to. I let the intrusive thoughts win. And I gotta say—A-grade buns. Absolute chef's kiss." He demonstrated the chef's kiss.
"I genuinely don't know," Yen said slowly, "whether to feel complimented or violated."
"Feel great, honey, always feel great," Jeremiah said warmly. "And for the record — I only did it because we're tight like that. Full consent of friendship. Any other circumstance, I mean… I'd still consider it. But only if it's worth risking jail time." He held up a finger. "Like soft, pillow-y, perfectly round, grab-able ass. It's a high bar."
"Bro that's so gay," one of their teammates said, laughing.
Jeremiah turned.
Slowly. With intention.
He crossed the distance between them with the unhurried confidence of someone who had never once in his life been rattled by anything — stopping just close enough to rearrange the air between them. Faces approximately one poor decision apart.
One finger, extended. Trailing slowly, softly, down the center of his teammate's chest.
"Trust me," Jeremiah said, voice low and amused, "that is just the tip of the iceberg. You wanna go deeper — fair warning — there is no coming back from it."
The teammate did not move.
To his full credit, he stood his ground completely.
His heart, however, had launched into a tempo that had absolutely nothing to do with standing his ground.
Jeremiah's smirk arrived — slow, satisfied, the smirk of a man whose hypothesis had been confirmed by data.
He walked away.
The teammate released a breath he had been holding without realizing he'd been holding it.
"That," another teammate said, nodding slowly, "was the gayest shit I have ever personally witnessed."
"But I'm not gay though?" the teammate replied—except it came out more like a question than a statement.
"With Jeremiah," his teammate said, with the patient wisdom of someone who had already been through exactly this, "that's not really the point. Straightest man alive will start questioning the fundamental nature of his own existence within thirty seconds of sustained Jeremiah exposure. It happens to everyone. You're not special, you're just next." A consoling pat on the back. "Welcome to the club buddy. We have therapy and the cocktails are free."
And thus, a background character became a full and card-carrying member of this story's roster.
Toma. Croatian. Twenty-three years old. Previously background. Currently staring at the middle distance and doing some quiet but significant internal restructuring.
Because he knew he liked women. That was a fact. Documented. Confirmed.
So outright gay was off the table.
Which left...
...Bi?
Toma stood with that thought for a moment.
The blush on his cheeks had strong opinions about it.
****
Toma's impromptu sexuality crisis would have to wait.
The stage was calling. Identity restructuring: postponed. Existential reckoning: tabled until further notice. There were performances to deliver and the universe, unfortunately, did not care about Toma's feelings about Jeremiah's finger right now.
Before they headed out, the team leader gathered everyone into a huddle.
The full formation — locked arms, heads bowed together, foreheads almost touching, the whole thing.
Very sports-core.
Except instead of tackling and concussions, this one came with music, high notes, and choreography… and significantly less aggressive body slamming. Though honestly, some of those tackles in actual sports? Suspicious. A little too much body contact for something that's supposedly just "competitive."
Like, you cannot convince me those sweaty men aren't feeling at least a little something when they're rolling around on the ground like that.
But hey. That's just me.
You already know how my brain works. My conscience usually shows up halfway through my nonsense like, "Alright, pack it up, you're getting weird again."
Not NSFW weird. Just… questionable life choices weird.
Anyway.
The universal pre-performance ritual that transcends sport, genre, and industry.
Before anyone starts foaming at the mouth—yes, I absolutely consider LEAVEN artists athletes. Full stop. This is the hill. This author will die on and I will die comfortably.
These people belt notes from the diaphragm while executing full choreography while controlling their breathing while making sure every single person watching is entertained. That is athletic. That is a sport. The costumes are just more interesting and nobody is tackling anyone to the ground—
...Well. Usually.
Anyway. My conscience has entered the chat and is tapping its watch. Moving on.
Everyone settled into the huddle, arms locked, waiting for their leader to deliver something rousing and meaningful and appropriately motivating before they went out to face the world.
Their leader looked around the circle.
"Alright," he said.
A breath.
"Jeremiah. Take it away."
He said it with full eye contact. Zero apology. The face of a man who had made his decision and was at peace with it.
The entire huddle went silent.
In Jeremiah's head, the thoughts were moving at speed. Did this bitch just— yes. Yes he did. He absolutely just did.
He did, Jeremiah. He really did.
Jeremiah considered his options. Considered making this a whole thing. Considered the merits of simply refusing on principle.
Then decided, because he was a diva and divas rise above, to be the bigger person.
"First of all," Jeremiah said, with the measured calm of a man opening negotiations, "you fucking owe me. I want a double custard cream iced mocha latte by the end of this performance. I'm not playing. I want it in my hand."
His eyes said he had never been more serious about anything in his life.
"DEAL," the leader said immediately, with a smile so large and so unrepentant that the entire team stared at him like he'd just sold his soul for coffee and was happy about it.
Which, honestly. Fair enough.
"Now that THAT'S settled," Jeremiah said, rolling his shoulders, stepping into it. "Alright y'all. We go out there. We have fun. We shake ass like tomorrow is a concept that doesn't apply to us. We be ourselves." He looked around the circle. "Nothing happened during our first performance — which means something is almost definitely coming this time. So when it shows up, we don't panic. We adapt. We keep performing like rent is due, because it absolutely fucking is, and I would personally like to maintain a roof over my head by the end of this evaluation." A pause for emphasis. "So stop worrying. When the shit comes — and it's coming — we handle it. Yeah?"
"YEAH!"
The energy cracked through the huddle like electricity.
"Good shit!" Jeremiah's smirk arrived in full. "Now let's get out there and absolutely DEMOLISH that stage—"
The actual leader, swept up entirely in the momentum Jeremiah had just built from nothing, threw his hand into the center of the circle with the energy of a man fully riding the high.
"ALRIGHT — bring it in!"
Everyone piled their hands on top, one after another, the stack building quickly, the pre-performance electricity doing its thing—
Everyone looked at the leader expectantly.
The moment arrived.
The leader opened his mouth.
And then—
"...So, uh. What are we shouting on three?"
Crickets.
Literal, actual, deeply judgmental crickets.
And then every hand in the stack peeled off and redirected toward their leader with great enthusiasm and zero mercy. Heavy man hands, landing from multiple directions, the accumulated frustration of an entire team expressed physically and simultaneously.
"Ow—hey—what the hell—!" he yelped as multiple grown men delivered rapid-fire smacks with zero mercy.
Jeremiah's contribution was sharp. Precise. Delivered with genuine personal investment and what could only be described as passion.
"THIS BITCH—"
And THIS, dear reader, is precisely why this leader has no name. No name. Background character status, maintained. He has had multiple opportunities to be promoted to fully named member of this cast and has squandered every single one of them through sheer, beautiful, catastrophic incompetence.
Do better.
We believe in you.
Sort of.